A Laboratory for the End of the World
by TheOtaku2
Summary: Aspiring musician and wealthy kin of aristocracy, Roderich Edelstein has been advised by his parents to take up the subject of art - an insurance career as his musical talent is ignored by the ignorant Viennese residents. Begrudgingly, he applies to the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts, but what dark secrets will he find out about the city while a paintbrush moves elegantly in his hand?
1. Prologue

Allo, peoples! This is the prologue to my new story, which I'm hoping will turn out to be as successful as my previous works.

Enjoy! - TheOtaku2

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

.

.

.

**January, 1908. Eisenstadt, Austria.**

The letter took its time to arrive at the Edelstein Manor, in Eisenstadt. But then again, Roderich mused as his mother handed him the envelope, in such a rural area post is delayed somewhat in transport.

He'd thought it would be just another letter from a relative, but upon glancing at the post-mark, he knew.

His heart began to race. He lowered himself gracefully into an armchair in his parents' drawing room, the fine fabric cushioning his slight figure. Thin, strong fingers tore open the paper - he would waste no time looking for a damned letter knife. From behind wireframes, deep amethyst eyes scrutinized the content.

Roderich's father, an ageing man of a stony personality, glanced to his son. "Well, Roderich? What was their reply?"

The young Austrian remained silent, his expression unreadable.

"Do tell us, dear," Urged Frau Edelstein.

Suddenly, he jumped up, straightening his upper-class attire and adjusted his glasses. He laid the letter on the table for all to see.

"It appears the _Wien Mozart Orchester_ has higher standards than those I possess," He announced briskly as he swept from the room, struggling to keep his composure.

.

.

.

He sat in his quarters, a great room large enough to accommodate his Grandfather's grand piano as well as his bed, wardrobe and en suite bathroom.

Anyone who stepped into such a place would immediately realise this was the chamber of a man raised with a silver spoon in his mouth. Roderich Edelstein, an only child, expected to achieve greatness from a young age, was now eighteen summers old.

He was naive, sharp-tongued, and in a state of ignosis about much of the world outside the manor grounds. Except for his passion: music. He was very well-informed on that subject. Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin just to name a few, Roderich would spend hours at the piano every day, practising their compositions and sonnets until his fingers became sore.

So honestly, when he applied and auditioned to join the Vienna Mozart Orchestra in December 1907, he had high hopes of a famous career in music. Of course, having found out today that they would not have him, such a career was hurtling away from him.

_Eighteen years and still no solid future prospects_, he thought idly as a pale palm came up to support his drooping head. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop the tears emerging.

Because he would not cry. Even though this was one of the last places he'd auditioned for, even though his last resort to success had failed, he would _not_ -

"Damn," Muttered Roderich as he felt hot droplets of water fall onto his cheeks.

Such a proud person was he, that even the thought of a few tears threatened to humiliate him beyond belief, even if he was crying alone.

Simply choosing to pretend he was not blubbering like a child, Roderich made to sit at the stool of the grand piano, a brilliant ebony-and-ivory beast coated to a shine. But his fingers could not touch the keys; his mind could not think of the notes he should play.

If music were his energy, then Roderich felt completely drained in that moment. Until he spotted a nearby fountain pen - a newly designed writing tool affordable only by the wealthy - and his spare blank sheet music.

He picked up the pen, admiring how delicate the pointed tip looked, before touching it to the paper. Roderich had been drawing for years, but he never before had felt the burning passion for artwork that he did for classical music. Still, today he did not want to write music, did not want to be reminded of letting down himself and his parents.

He longed for a distraction, and so he focused on drawing something. Closing his eyes, he pictured the piano, saw the joints and reflections and shadows it would cast. He saw the gleam on the surface and the elegant, simple carvings on its sides.

Opening his eyes, he began to draw with a vengeance. He incorporated emotions into this picture, namely anger at not being able to achieve his dream, frustration at them not even appreciating the hours, the concentration, the _effort_ he'd put into that performance-!

Finally, shoulders slumping, the Austrian sat back from his finished work. An exact, precisely captured drawing of the piano rested on the paper, its lines bold and black from the pen's ink. He knew he should have used an artist's pencil but he had been too desperate to draw something. The picture looked, well, _menacing_.

Somehow, using his unbridled anger and talent for putting mind to paper, he had managed to make a piano look aggressive. The thought made him scoff. _I really do not understand art._

Later that day, at dinner, few words were spoken between the three Edelsteins. Roderich's parents always proved terrible at consoling people, and so decided not to mention the letter.

"Roderich, dear, you should try to eat more meat," Advised Frau Edelstein from across the fancy dining table, "you're dreadfully thin."

Said son prodded at the vegetables on his plate with his fork. "I am of a perfectly healthy weight, Mother. Do not worry."

With a sympathetic smile, his mother relented. Roderich secretly knew he was becoming unhealthy, what with his stressed lifestyle of perfecting the work of composers, the long waking hours, lack of sleep and vitamins...but he felt he was making a necessary sacrifice.

Now was Roderich's father's turn to speak. "Son, the maids were cleaning your bed quarters today and, well, one of them found this," He held aloft the sheet of music paper. "I hope you do not mind, she merely wanted to protect it from getting damaged."

Roderich frowned in confusion. It was his piano drawing. "Ah, no, I do not mind," He answered, "but that really is of no importance to me. It can be burned -"

"How could you say that?" Blurted his mother. Strange, she spoke that sentence in English. What with living in Austria, the family never needed to speak anything other than German. Still Roderich frowned. _All this fuss over a bloody drawing?_

"E-excuse me," She apologised, returning to German. "I only protest because it is a beautiful piece, Roderich."

"In fact, you have been kindling your art skills more than ever over these past few years, " Added his father, "the portraits you made of the Zwingli siblings were wonderfully painted."

"Thank you, Father, but-"

"You really do have a talent for the fine arts," Finished Frau Edelstein, once more interrupting him. For all he'd been taught, that interruption was rude, it seemed his parents were being very hypocritical right now.

Then he set his cutlery down. _Fine arts._ He recognised that phrase. And then it occurred to him what his parents were doing. He looked to them both. "No."

Both looked confused. "What do you mean, 'no'?" Queried his father.

Roderich wore a tight-lipped expression. "I will not consider a career as an artist. No."

The wool was lifted from his eyes, and his parents dropped the act. His mother again began,"You are so good at drawing, at painting, we just thought -"

"No." His father wore a pitied look. "Come now, Roderich, why not try it?"

"No."

Sighing, both older Austrians shared a glance. "I would urge you to reconsider," Herr Edelstein started, "you see, Roderich, we have…"

"Already looked into getting you a place at the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts," Finished Frau Edelstein, her greying hair falling untidily out of its bun. They sight of grey hairs reminded the young man that he was not getting any younger. And if he _did_ have talent, as so many relatives had said… "But, I...I had hoped to be a composer. Or pianist."

"You are already an able pianist."

Another scowl. "I meant _professionally_, Mother."

"You of all people understand how hard it is to gain that calibre of career in a musical city such as Vienna, or in a country like Austria," Pointed out his father carefully, "and you _have_ had success as a musician, just not to the level you were expecting."

"Father, it is the same for the art world. It is evolving in this era; there are up-and-coming new artists to Vienna every other day. I don't even understand the subject!"

"Lower your voice," Instructed Herr Edelstein.

"And just because you do not understand art has never prevented you from excelling at it," Amended Frau Edelstein, watching closely as the cogs spun in her son's mind.

Finally, after their dinner plates had been cleared, Roderich folded his arms. "...How can you expect me to go from a low-level artist to someone of, say, Gustav Klimt's standard at that Academy?"

"He works there, you know. He could teach you." Noted his father.

"Hm. So what would make me any different from the hundreds of other applicants?" The brunette asked doubtfully. _I cannot believe I am even considering this._

"Oh, your way of painting will surely pay for your entry," Answered his frail mother, enthusiastic at the prospect. "The Academy would _love_ your contribution." Shaking his head, brow furrowed, the younger man gave up. After all, it wasn't like his music career was going anywhere at the moment…

He stood, setting down his napkin and straightening his cravat. "Very well. I shall apply to the Vienna Academy of," He faltered, "Fine Arts. Excuse me." He left the room in a huff, preparing himself to begin sulking as soon as was possible.

.

.

.

* * *

><p>...Woo. <em>Bis bald, Freunde<em>~


	2. Chapter 1

_Guten Tag_, _hier ist das zweite Kapi_~ (Good day, here's the second chapter)

* * *

><p><strong>February 1908. Eisenstadt, Austria.<strong>

"Roderich, they have accepted!" Roderich's mother declared, brandishing the next letter addressed to her son within two months. Her son arose from his chair, setting down his paperwork. "Excuse me?"

The letter was waved again, closer to his proximity this time. "The Academy! They have agreed for you to join."

The young aristocrat was surprised. He honestly had not expected to be accepted - really, he hadn't even done any art courses before! He had no good grades to show for his work, no references, other than a few family members...So how come the Academy so readily took him in? "Are you sure, Mother?"

"Yes, yes! Here," She replied enthusiastically as she handed him the letter.

He skimmed it thoughtfully.

**...and so, the Vienna Academy of Fine Arts shall gladly accept Herr Roderich Edelstein. **

**With kind regards, **

**Professor Francis Bonnefoy**

Beneath the printed name, was an artfully elegant signature. Certainly this professor was an artist.

"Bonnefoy," Roderich tried the sound of it on his tongue. "Sounds French."

Frau Edelstein tilted her head. "...Yes, I did wonder about that. He must also be an administrator for the Academy." Her eyes bored into his. "You will go, won't you?"  
>Another sigh. <em>Well, considering Mother Music has given up on me. along with the whole damned Vienna city. <em>"...I...I suppose I could, try, Mother."

.

.

.

**February 1908. Schillerplatz, Vienna, Austria.**

The carriage rattled to a stop along the road leading to the Vienna Academy, the horses bowing their perspiring heads as they stood restless in their harnesses.

"Now, it was very much a last-minute arrangement," Commented Herr Edelstein as he fixed his son's dark lilac eyes sincerely, "so do not expect treatment fit for a Royal."

"At a fine art academy, I am not sure the word 'Royal' would be the first to spring to mind," Roderich grumbled, "how do I not know they will not expect me to live in a store cupboard?"

Frau Edelstein frowned, fixing her skirts as they prepared to exit the finely-decorated carriage. "Enough of that sulking attitude, Roderich. You appeared so excited when first this was mentioned." With a sigh, the young Austrian aristocrat opened his side door and stepped out. _Did I? Then I must be a better actor than I imagined._

He stopped in front of the Academy to admire it's Viennese beauty. It was a great ornament, carved with precision and finesse, six tall stone pillars holding up the entrance framework, upon each stood statues of angels or perhaps goddesses - Roderich did not particularly care which.

He ventured into the grand hallway. The sight took his breath from him.

More stone pillars carved into ridges held up the ceiling - the ceiling which was so beautifully painted with figures of angels and cherubs, with every colour the mind could capture. All of this reflected in the deep amethyst orbs of his. Everything was polished to a gleam; not even footprints could be seen on the marble flooring.

_A grand Academy indeed._

The sound of echoing footsteps accompanied the form of perhaps the most elegant man Roderich had ever laid eyes on. His heeled dress shoes clicked as his long, slender legs moved under swaying hips; a long paint-splattered dandy-shirt with frilled sleeves and drawstrings covered his thin torso; slim shoulders were touched upon lightly by his long platinum blonde hair which framed his face, his light blue eyes glinting as he flashed the Austrian family a smile.

Glancing sideways, Roderich noted his father's eyes narrowing and his mother drawing a quick breath.

"_Bonjour_," Greeted the angelic man as he stopped before the youngest man. Said young man noted he smelled of a fine fragrance. Honeysuckle? _No. Roses._

"Ah, I apologise, I meant _guten Tag_." Another smile.

"...Yes, it is nice to meet you. I assume you are of course Herr Bonnefoy?" Asked Roderich's father with a look of bemusement on his wrinkled features. Naturally like the typical Austrian aristocrats he did not widely approve of foreigners working in his home country.

"_Oui_, I am he. I understand your son is to begin his course with us soon?" A nod from Herr Edelstein. Frau Edelstein finally gathered her thoughts enough to speak. "Y-yes. This is Roderich," She gently took her son's arm and gave an aged smile to the Frenchman, who happily returned it.

Roderich felt his mother squeeze his bicep. _That must be the signal to contribute._

"Sir, I would like to thank you for allowing myself entry into this Academy, I look forward to working here." _There._ Just like he had practised earlier that day with his mother. Of course, his mother was of a much more different character than the model before him now. Aforementioned model placed one hand on his hip, giving the younger a nod of approval. "Come. I will show you the Academy."

"I'm afraid we cannot stay," Spoke Roderich's father, "but we fully intend to explore the hallways of this building at Herr Klimt's _Kunstschau_. That is happening soon, is it not?"

Bonnefoy nodded, clapped his hands together briskly. "_Alor_, it was lovely to meet you. I hope to see you soon," He winked at Roderich's mother, to which she grew paler. "Y-yes, Herr Bonnefoy," She muttered nervously, turning to her son, giving him a comforting smile. "We'll see you soon, Roderich."

Both adults left their only child with no more than a suitcase of his belongings and a sense of abandonment. He recalled this feeling from many previous experiences: his parents, while adoring of him, had always liked their space. Children who were fed and educated properly were considered 'nurtured' by his mother's books, but….he'd always felt distant from them. Roderich respected and obeyed them, but he did not seem to have the kind of emotional attachment one would expect between parents and kin.

Together, Roderich and Bonnefoy ascended one of the _grande_ staircases, footsteps echoing, emphasising the lack of dialogue and the excess amount of thoughts.

_It is unusually quiet for such a vast, widely-catering Academy,_ the younger man thought as he admired artworks upon the hallways. Suddenly, the Academy's orchestra started to play a concerto from Mozart. "I was unaware there was an orchestra here," Roderich commented.

Bonnefoy glanced at him, smiling. "_Oui_, they are an exceptional group of people. Your mother mentioned your love of music, am I to assume it is as strong as your passion for art?"

Roderich hesitated. _Stronger. By far. _"...Yes, yes from a young age I played many instruments, piano being the favoured."

Nodding, the Frenchman gestured in the direction of the music. "I would of course allow you to play in our orchestra, however they have no places available. I apologise."

"N-no, it is fine," Replied the younger, waving it off. "But please, pray tell them that if they are in need of a pianist, I will of course offer to contribute."

"I shall inform them of that." As they continued, the music switched to a different piece, again by Mozart. Roderich found himself compelled to sway with the sounds of _Requiem_, the quiet opening to the striking vocals and rippling chords of the violin. Mozart's mournful tune dedicated to the passing of his wife, Anna. The power and drama of the Masterpiece sent chills up Roderich's spine.

Such was the effect of this music, it took him a few moments to notice Francis Bonnefoy had stopped walking.

The brunette turned to face him, the music now a distant whisper in the corridor in which they stood. Bonnefoy had stopped before plain double-doors. "These are the men's dormitories," He announced.

Those pale blue eyes of his held a look of suspicion.

Roderich had always been taught it was rude to stare, much less with a judging eye. "What is it?" He asked, restraining from snapping at the older man.

"Master Edelstein, I am a professor of fine art here at this Academy, and to all art students I must ask this question to their faces," Francis began, slowly making his way over to Roderich. He halted when their chests almost touched, so much so that the Austrian began to get even more uncomfortable. The Frenchman's lips parted once more, "Do you really want to be here?"

Darkened lilac eyes narrowed. "I…Pardon?"

"To be here, now, is an honour. You have accepted that. I have been told you want, desperately, to take an artistic course. So why, then, do I see you tremble at the orchestra's performances? Why do your fingers twitch so, as if aching for ebony and ivory keys?" Still Roderich couldn't answer. _Oh no, if I do not assure him...he will throw me out, and my parents will be...devastated…_

"I do want to be here," He blurted, somewhat clumsily. Francis smiled softly. "But it is not for the artwork, correct?"

Roderich flushed. "What- I - no, I….I _do_ honestly like to draw -"

"'Like' is a weak word," Interrupted Bonnefoy, "if you are to stay here, it is 'love' that you need. I can see you have love, are _in_ love, but it is with chords and concertos, not colours. Why did you come here?"

Feeling disheartened, Roderich tried to salvage any reasoning he had left. He sighed. "While it is true my heart beats faster for music than canvas, I believe it is possible to be in love with two subjects at once," He continued, tone becoming more confident, "indeed my fingers were twitching but how do you know it was not for a paintbrush, or a graphite pencil? I am here to work, to learn, and appreciate the finer details of this city. I do very much want to be here, Herr Bonnefoy. Does that answer meet your expectations?" It was clear by the look on Francis's face that Roderich had stunned him with certainty, after such a submissive first impression was given. Striding over and opening one of the doors, Bonnefoy gestured inside with a smirk. "I have heard better."

The room Roderich was to stay in turned out more of an 'office': it contained only a small desk of drawers, a single bed, small shelf unit and a window with a rather unstimulating view of the street below. Seeing as this place had few residents able to afford a room inside the Academy he imagined the dorm would be rather quiet after classes had finished every day.

Bonnefoy had left with words of advice, for him to explore the Vienna city. _The buildings and scenery prove for excellent artistic stimulation_, he had commented. _Classes do not begin until tomorrow so be sure not to get carried away chasing dames._

The cheek! Roderich had no time for such affairs - literally. After the long journey here, a quick briefing and registration along with unpacking, he was positively exhausted. The dormitory had a bathroom - communal with cubicles - but it was of poor condition. He decided not to bathe just yet.

He also felt guilty that everything he'd said to Bonnefoy had been poppycock. Well, not all of it, but… He ached to walk over to that music room, push aside their current pianist and tickle the ivories with his own hands; he did not long to paint.

Glancing at his room with a thought of dismay, Roderich pulled on his fabric overjacket as he stepped out into the corridor, making a path for Vienna City.

.

.

.

"What do you mean, he is ill? When did he fall ill?" The sounds of Bonnefoy's agitated voice rang throughout the hallway near the exit of the Academy. Curious, Roderich peered between the double doors into the room from which the sounds were coming from. In the room stood many easels, tables, stools and other such equipment. He could only assume this was an art classroom - in the centre there was a dais, a raised stage, assumedly for still-life drawings.

The Austrian blushed at the thought of drawing people, naked people, trying to replicate everything from their skin tone to the light effect.

Francis appeared troubled as he spoke with another man - _another professor, perhaps?_ Pondered Roderich as his ears picked up more conversation.

"I am sorry, Francis, but he has only just sent an informant to us. It is a serious infection, maybe influenza."

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. "Very well, it is too late to call in another still-life model. We shall have to make do with only two. It is a shame, really - his musculature is simply _divine_." Again, the Austrian's cheeks burned with those calibre of words.

"_Sir_," The other man gasped, "it is highly inappropriate for you to be using such….misleading….language when talking about a male."

"We teach others how to draw naked humans, Herr Meier," Replied the Frenchman, undeterred, "so why should we not openly praise our subjects?" Still Meier looked bewildered. "Bloody Frenchman, cannot tell chalk from cheese…" He muttered distastefully as he sidled away.

_That was strange._ Purple eyes widened as his gaze returned to Francis. Francis, who was looking right at him. _Oh dear._

"It is rude to eavesdrop," Scolded the professor as he moved to open one door, leaning against it.

"Y-yes, you're - I did not mean to, sir, I only…" Roderich took a deep breath. "What do you mean, only two? Who is the ill person?"

"A very worthy painting model," Answered Francis. "Alas, disease has taken him before you have had the chance to paint him. We are already lacking in participants for this area of art, and this is…" He trailed off. "Well. What were you wandering around for?"

Roderich licked his full lips. "I was on my way to explore Vienna, as per your advice. May I ask, why are there so few people interested in this kind of artwork?"

To this, the blonde-haired man paused in answering. "Most subjects are expected to be naked for their portraits," He explained, "and seeing as this is Vienna, this is Austria, I have found the people here to be much more…._unwilling_ than those of Paris, for example," he finished with a wink.

"Do you mean to insinuate that just because Viennese people are less willing to strip for strangers, they are more arrogant?" Roderich's tone was becoming heated. He had never been possessed with a fierce desire to defend his countrymen - hell, they could do that themselves - but he did not like the way this foreigner spoke of them. Like they were frigid, scared of reality.

Leaning down so that blue eyes bored into purple, the Frenchman gave the slightest of nods. "Be careful with your interpretations. But yes, I do believe that to look upon the naked beauty of a man -" He faltered, "or woman, with only embarrassment and disgust as these people do, is unwise. Beauty is fleeting, so why not worship it while it lasts?"

"My idea of beauty differs from yours, as does everyone else's."

"Students taking this art course would disagree. Remember, Master Edelstein, _you_ are also a student who will be starting this course tomorrow. You will be expected to complete one artwork a day. Focus on being open-minded, not some shallow being who can only see something pretty when it wears clothes." With that, the older man moved past the tongue-tied Austrian, swiftly travelling to other parts of the building.

Expelling a huff of frustration, Roderich went out into the streets with one thought on his mind: _what a perverted Frenchman; I shall never see beauty in something so bare as skin._

.

.

.

* * *

><p>I hope you like this chapter, and I mean to cause no offence to either French or Austrian people :3 ..I don't think there's anything to translate which isn't inferable in meaning...Ah! <em>Kunstschau <em>= art show.


	3. Chapter 2

Thank you for your patience, here is the third part! This might even be forming a plot...maybe.

* * *

><p>The sun disappeared behind the clouds as Roderich spent his afternoon trailing around Vienna. Really, it was such a small city he wondered why so many had been attracted to it, but upon seeing the delicate structure of the buildings, the quiet people and the slow pace of life here, he understood what made it so appealing: this place was everyone's escape from typical cities. It was an alternate universe, ignorant from the outside world.<p>

The streets and roads were clean, horse-and-carriages were busy taking wealthy people to their destinations - those of less status would either walk or not bother to set foot in the snobbish setting that was 1908 Vienna City.

Roderich himself chose to walk. Well, actually he wanted to save as much money as possible, but he convinced himself that even if he'd had more money to spend he would have chosen to walk. It gave him more time to see the scenery.

_But we are not currently painting buildings, we are painting people_. When this thought dawned on him so did an idea: he needed to find a place where he could observe people. Here in the pathways of the city everyone was a blur; yet his eyes spied a nearby cafe. That was not particularly difficult: there were over 1000 such coffeehouses in Vienna alone.

This one, he noted as he strode closer, was labelled _Café Central_. It appeared to be the grandest little establishment around, all finely-cut wooden signs, soothing décor and peaceful paintings by local artists displayed on the walls lit by overhead shaded bulbs. Under the bubbled, domed ceiling bordered by contemporary patterns Roderich walked, admiring the pillars and the warm colours inside. Calm classical music played and the smells of coffee, cakes and pastries made him salivate.

Seating himself in an empty booth, Roderich sighed, breathing in the thick scent of coffee and various colognes as he picked up the menu, perusing their dishes and drinks.

He stood up to go and order, but a figure blurred into him, knocking him off balance.

"Oh - jeez! I am so sorry," Came an apologetic voice as Roderich fell back onto his seat heavily, blinking in confusion. The man above him crouched down, picked something up from the floor. Roderich could see a head of pure white hair, layered.

"I - um, it's alright…" Mumbled the Austrian as he straightened his cravat and collar.

Without meeting his eyes, the clumsy stranger moved to walk away, when Roderich caught a glimpse of something familiar in the man's pale hand.

"Hey!" The Austrian stood, scowling, "That is my wallet!" With a chuckle the man sprung away, darting around tables and out of the Café doors, Roderich doing his best to catch up with him - however, his years spent at the piano meant he barely had time for activities such as _running_, and he was on the street only feet away from the thief, forced into an unsightly _sprint_ and he did not want to know how ridiculous he looked now, chasing after a raggedly-dressed athlete when he himself wore his fine upper-class attire -

Roderich's foot caught in a crack on the pavement, his ankle bending at an uncomfortable angle and sending him propelling forwards, arms outstretched, hands touching the back of the thief, pushing him -

- into the way of an oncoming carriage, the horses rearing and whinnying with fright as the figure dropped, rolled, came to a stop on the other side of the cobbled road.

"_You bloody fools!_"

The cry from the chauffeur burned Roderich's ears as he lay stomach-down on the pavement, both his ankle and his pride being damaged. Everyone around him had stopped, staring. Ladies clung to their husbands' arms in shock; said husbands were looking at the young Austrian with bemusement and disgust.

After the chauffeur had calmed the horses, he cursed Roderich once more before setting about his journey again. The Austrian heard a groan, not far from where he lay. _The thief_.

Sitting up, Roderich tried to stand, but collapsed to his knees when his left ankle gave. Through his glasses - _how_ had they managed to survive? - Roderich met the eyes of a few onlookers. Most then went about their business, ignoring him as if he were dirt beneath their shoes.

_What...horrid people. No one has even offered to help me!_ With a grunt he managed to stay one his feet, hopping angrily over to the body of the thief laying on the concrete. A dark, frayed shawl covered his back and his white hair was now dirtied by the street dust.

Roderich crouched down next to him, plucking the wallet from between the man's fingers.

"Wretched thief," He spat, brushing back his fringe as he placed his wallet in his pocket; as he straightened a hand shot out, grabbed his injured ankle.

"Ngh," Roderich grunted in annoyance, glaring down at the defiling hand.

The man had lifted his upper body, head kept low. "You….God...damn rich people," He growled. The Austrian's attention was taken by his accent, and the way his German was spoken…._yes, this is a German. Berliner, by the sounds of it._

"You have come a long way from your usual hunting ground," Commented the Austrian blandly, "did the police come too close to catching you in Berlin?"

The grip on his ankle tightened, as the man used it as a base while he moved onto his knees, head still kept down. "Be quiet, you don't know anything. You were raised on a silver platter, _I_ gotta take more risks to get my riches."

"...It is rude not to look people in the eye when addressing them." Now the thief was standing, somewhat shakily, his hands on his knees. Roderich suspected one of the horses had kicked him in their panic.

"I have a good reason for not meeting anyone's eyes, and it ain't because I'm a thief."

Suddenly, Roderich grabbed the man's chin in his hand, turned it up towards his own. Violet eyes widened as they met..._crimson_.

"Back off!" The man shook free of the grip, trying to redeem his full height yet doubling over again, clutching his stomach with a groan.

Roderich froze. "You….you are - I mean, your eyes, they are red…" Sensing the game was up, the pale man raised his head, those silvery-grey locks falling over his deep red eyes. "I know what colour my eyes are, you swine." He tried to hobble away but the Austrian blocked him. _What am I doing? I do not want to be involved with this scoundrel._ "Why do you look so different?"

"Because I'm a fucking _fairy_," Hissed the man, turning another direction to leave. Roderich stepped in again. _I should let him go, he clearly has wounds that need tending to..._But an idea struck, something consisting of his and Francis's earlier conversation.

_We shall have to make do with only two. _

_How interesting would it be_, He thought, _if we were to paint him? He has such contrasting colours, white and red…_

"Jeez, man," Wheezed the thief, now becoming more patient as the oblivious citizens of Vienna passed by, "I am sorry I took your wallet, but...I can't stay here."

Roderich straightened his back, glancing down at his hunched form. "Then...come with me." The man hesitated. "What?"

"You heard. There is….I have a proposition for you." That got the man's full attention; their eyes locked again, one set unsure and the other confused.

The man sniffled. "Go on."

Roderich licked his lips. "There may be an opportunity for you to have somewhere to stay. In an Academy. You would have shelter and would not need to -"

"Spit it out, Priss."

"What did you call me?"

"Priss."

Roderich bristled. _Perhaps I should just leave him after all._ "Well, if you are not interested…"

"No, wait," Blurted the man, "just….just what would I have to _do_, in order to stay at this Academy?"

_Here it goes. _"...You would be a still-life model, for art students to paint." Apart from the sounds of the people around them, neither man spoke for a moment. The man's brow furrowed. "They _ask_ people to do that? I thought they were just nudists."

That earned a slight upturn of the mouth from Roderich. "That is my proposition, though I myself cannot confirm you will be allowed it. Do you accept?"

He watched, silent, as the man chewed it over, rearranging his clothing and wiping off some of the gravel from his body. Finally, with one risen eyebrow, he answered, "Sure, why not."

.

.

.

"Master Edelstein," Francis Bonnefoy sighed as he took in the Austrian's dishevelled appearance, "when I said chasing dames I did not mean _literally_ chasing them-" his eyes glanced over the hunched, cloaked figure beside him. "Who is this?"

"He is…" Roderich began, abashedly realising he had not thought of a valid explanation as to who this man was. He did not even think to ask his _name_! "This is…"  
>"Gilbert Beilschmidt," The man stated, holding out a hand for Francis to shake. However, with a suspicious glance at the filthy palm, said Frenchman refused. "Right. It is, uh, nice to meet you Herr Beilschmidt. Master Edelstein you still haven't answered my question exactly."<p>

Roderich gulped. "Well, you see, I...A thief tried to steal my wallet in a cafe, and…" Out of the corner of his eye the Austrian could see Gilbert tense, "...Herr Beilschmidt got it back for me. I saw his, well, his appearance and I thought he could be another life-model, for the art classes."

Steadily the Frenchman's brow sunk with each passing word he spoke, arms folded tightly against his chest. "His appearance?"

In explanation, Gilbert raised his head and pulled down the hood of his cloak; Francis's jaw dropped in a rather comical fashion when he saw the man's snow white locks and ruby red eyes.

"I see," Francis whispered softly. "You have albinism."

At that, Gilbert bristled. _He must not like the term_, concluded Roderich as the German spoke, "...Yes, I do. So I've been told you pencil-pushers might want to paint me."

The older blonde tilted his head. "We - we may have a position for you. I shall have to check with other members of this establishment." Taking Roderich's shoulder and moving themselves aside, the Frenchman hissed, "This is very sudden. However, I agree with your point. Take him to the dormitories and pick him out one while I settle arrangements." With that, he breezed out of the extravagant hallway.

Gilbert turned to Roderich, a sly smile on his face. "Didn't know you were prone to defending criminals."

"Oh please," The other retorted hotly, "if I had announced that you were a thief you would be thrown out sooner than the blink of an eye. Now, follow me." Begrudgingly, the albino did, taking in the surroundings as they made their way to the males' dormitories.

Opening the door to an unoccupied room, the Austrian relayed information he himself had been given earlier. "No smoking, there are restrictions on alcoholic beverages, you must ask if you need any essentials and seeing as you cannot pay rent here, I should imagine the Academy will also employ you as an errand boy."

"Boy?" Repeated Gilbert as he sank down onto the plain mattress. "I am twenty-four years old. I'd have to be at least an errand _man_. Tell me, why must you insist I be an art subject?" The smirk appeared again. "Is it because you want to humiliate me?" Gilbert stood, limped over to the younger man, leaned in. "Or is it because you want to see me naked?"

Cheeks turning red, Roderich shoved him aside weakly, "Do not ask such crass questions, Herr Beilschmidt. If you find this taste of upper-class life too boring for you nobody will complain if you leave."

"Nah, why would I leave now I have shelter and a bed? Maybe even a job," He chuckled, "perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing, you catchin' me in the act. I should get caught more often by you snobs."

"Sn-? We are _not_ snobs, we are noblemen," Defended Roderich, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his straight nose.

"Same thing," Spat Gilbert, eyes now aflame with frustration.

Before any more unwanted comments would be exchanged, the younger decided to make his leave of the room and head to his own: he needed time to calm down.

.

.

.

Roderich was awoken abruptly by the sound of floorboards creaking in the hallway outside his room. Cursing himself for being such a light sleeper, he rested his head once more on the pillows, trying to slip away into sleep again.

_Creak. Creak. Cre-ak. Thud. Thud. _

"Oh for goodness' sake," The sleepy Austrian mumbled as he reached for the box of matches on the table, lit a nearby oil lamp and put on his glasses. He stepped up to his door, nightgown flowing to his ankles. He was sure nightgowns weren't meant to be this long, but he was not the tallest of men.

_Creak_. Roderich yanked the door open. "Who is there?" He hissed.

"Fuck!" Cussed Gilbert Beilschmidt, throwing himself against the opposite wall in shock, arms over his face.

"B-Beilschmidt? What on _Earth_ are you doing?" Roderich all but snapped, brow furrowing. Lowering his arms, Gilbert smiled. "Got hungry. Thought I'd go on a food hunt."

"You - you could not wait until morning? Or at least be a little quieter?" Admittedly this would have been only for his benefit, considering Roderich was clueless as to whether there were other people on this floor, in these dorms.

Gilbert shrugged nonchalantly. "Not my fault if you can't sleep through a few footsteps."

"A few -? I thought the building might collapse under your heavy footfalls!" At that, Gilbert approached him, his limp still obvious. Roderich noted he was still wearing the same clothes from earlier - thought he had removed the black, tattered cloak. Now Gilbert, smelling very strongly of body odour, was centimetres from him.

"No need to be melodramatic, Priss."

"Do not call me that. Be on your way, if you are after food." Speaking of food, Roderich was reminded of his lack in such a nutrient. His stomach awoke with a growl, causing him to blush and Gilbert to smirk once more. "Hungry, Specs?"

Roderich frowned. "My name is not 'Specs'."

"Oh yeah," Gilbert agreed. "It's Richard, in't it?"

"No -"

"Can I call you 'Dick' for short, Specs?" With that Roderich made to shut the door as the German chuckled, but said German jammed his foot in the doorway. "Wait, wait - I'm sorry. I was joking, Edelstein."

Roderich gave him a skeptical look. "Yes, I was aware. I am too tired for this, so -"

"But you're already awake," Persisted the older man. "Why not come find food with me?"

"Because it is night time and I do not know my way around just yet."

"Fine, I'll just try to figure out where the canteen is myself," Gilbert moved away, turning to the corridor, "hope I don't wake you again by falling down the stairs or something - I mean, I do not even have a light…"

Glancing at the oil lamp, the Austrian sighed. "...Very well. But know this," he stepped out of his room, shutting the door silently, "if we are caught, I will not hesitate to put all blame on you."

.

.

.

This really was a bloody big building.

Eventually upon reaching the lower floors of the Academy, Roderich opened another door, on the brink of praying they would have found the canteen.

Because Gilbert Beilschmidt would not be quiet.

"...that painting is interesting, isn't it? I like the brushwork of that one." The German pointed to a piece on the wall to their left.

"I did not know you were so keen on artwork, Herr Beilschmidt."

"I - hang on, I can't see it now, you - stop moving the lamp!"

"How can I not move the lamp, when we are moving around?" The Austrian mumbled tiredly. This had been a really bad idea, in a bloody big building. Gilbert caught up with him, one eyebrow cocked as he peered into the room Roderich had chosen.

"Nothing in here but a few stands, chairs, and some kind of piano."

Instantly, the brunette entered the large hall. He could not see much in the gloom, but by the light of a few uncurtained windows he spotted the glimmering outline of a grand piano, just as Gilbert had claimed.

_So that was the centre of the concerto I heard earlier…_

"We should get moving, now we know there is no food here." Gilbert's voice seemed distant. Gosh, Roderich missed his piano.

How long had it been since his fingers had touched such keys? 48 hours? Longer?

It felt as if he had not played in weeks. He missed it. The soothing sounds he created while seated upon that stool made him feel sleepy again, it always did help him to relax, to sort problems out, to focus…

Suddenly a pale hand waved in front of his vision, bringing him back to reality. With this, came the sight of a pair of glinting ruby eyes surrounded by alabaster hair and the sound of a whispered urgency. "Specs, snap out of it, it is just a piano."  
>Blink, blink. Roderich adjusted his glasses for something to do as his cheeks flushed. "My apologies, I...do not know what came over me." After seeing the albino's confused expression he felt elaboration would be helpful, "I am a pianist, you see."<p>

Immediately, Gilbert began to chuckle. "A penis?"

Purple eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. How could this man speak so, so _rudely_? "N-no! Not a p - do not be silly. I said a _pianist_, you fool."

With a hand clamped over his smirking mouth, the taller man swallowed his laughter, turning to leave the room. "Sure. Let's go before your _pianist_ thoughts take you again."

Roderich briefly wondered whether he should clout the man about the head with the oil lamp, but rejected the idea on the grounds that without said oil lamp, he was blind in the darkness.

.

.

.

A light switch.

_How_ had they not first decided to find a light switch? This thought came to Roderich as he felt around a wall for one - _click_ - the hallway they were standing in was filled with dim light from overhead bulbs, casting colour into the previously grey paintings surrounding them.

Gilbert, he noticed, shielded his eyes from the light with a forearm, squinting. "Good idea, but now my eyes are burning." Roderich gave him a withering look. "Now you do not need me to stay with you. Good night, Herr Beilschmidt."

"Wait -"

Before Gilbert could finish his sentence, Roderich tripped on the hem of his gown; the carpeted floor rushed up to meet him and he gave a yelp of pain when his jaw hit -

- the oil lamp went flying, smashing onto the ground, flame catching on fabric and canvas alike, burning -

"Edelstein!" Gilbert dove towards him, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him to his feet, "Are you alright?"

"I am -" The dancing yellow tendrils caught their eyes, as the fire climber up the wall and began to eat the nearest painting, a beautiful oil-picture of a lake. "Oh no."

"Shit!" Gilbert tore off his over-shirt, batting at the fire with it as Roderich heard running footsteps in the distance.

"Out of the way," Came a commanding voice as both men looked down the hallway where a figure was striding up to them, bucket in hand. Roderich and Gilbert complied as the bucket was upturned and the water silenced the fire before it could catch onto the next painting.

The remains of the art piece hissed, the burned edges curling inwards like serpents.

His back pressed against a section of wall, Roderich lifted his head, pushing up his glasses to define the person in front of him.

Cloth trousers covered strong legs; a loose nightshirt draped over a - pair of breasts? Bringing his eyes further up, Roderich gaped as he noticed long mousy brown hair cascading over thin shoulders. That wavy head of hair bore an incredibly annoyed expression, creasing pretty features.

"Who are you?" She asked in that same dominant tone. Roderich was too stunned to speak. _Trousers_, on a _woman_? The audacity!

"I am awesome, that's who I am," Interrupted Gilbert, drawing her green-eyed glare, "who are you, Miss?" She scoffed. "_Miss_? Do not patronise me, if it weren't for me this building would already be in ashes by now. My name is Erzsébet Héderváry."

Roderich's brow furrowed, noticing the now-empty bucket in her hands. "Where did you get the water from?"

Erzsébet cocked an eyebrow. "The canteen kitchen, of course. It is only a few doors down from here. Now tell me, why are you two trying to burn down this building?"

"We're not-"

"That is incorrect," Began the Austrian, dusting himself off and striding over to the woman. She was an inch or so taller than him, but that did not serve as a deterrent. "I tripped and fell, so my oil lamp broke on impact."

Again, that condescending tone and look. "What made you think that carrying an oil lamp around in the dark, in a _highly flammable_ area, was a good idea? You're lucky the paint fumes did not encourage the flames."

Before Roderich could think of a defence, Gilbert chimed in, a smirk on his lips as he held his toasted shirt close. "Actually, the funny thing is, he tripped _after_ the lights came on. Nightgowns are a pain, aren't they, Specs?"

The brunette's face became hotter by the second as he shot a warning glance to the white-haired German.

Erzsébet seemed surprised by this revelation, and was that a tinge of pink upon her cheeks when she noticed Roderich's attire? Surely there was nothing wrong with a nightgown.

Roderich cleared his throat, desperate to return to his room. "Yes, well. This mess shall no doubt be sorted in the morning. For now, Beilschmidt, Erz - Erse -"

"Just call me Elizaveta, it is easier to pronounce," She advised.

"Goodnight." As he turned to finally leave this catastrophe, he heard Gilbert ask Elizaveta to show him to the canteen, and fought down the growl in his stomach.

.

.

.

When he awoke early that morning, and unlocked his door, Roderich found a small sandwich wrapped in clingfilm by his door. A note was attached to it:

**Here you go, Specs. Don't want you to starve. -G**

Then Roderich heard the commotion coming from a floor or so down, and remembered how he had accidentally destroyed a precious art piece on one of those walls….

_I am in a lot of trouble._

* * *

><p>Thoughts? Feelings? Evaluation? I shall read them all -Otaku2<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

Writer's block is a bitch. A cruel, heartless, wordless bitch. I cannot update again before Christmas, so if you celebrate it, Merry Christmas! _Fröhliche Weihnachten_! _Joyeux Noël_! If you don't celebrate it, have a good time regardless~

* * *

><p>There was a small crowd of other art students gathered around in the hallway. They must live in Vienna, or near enough, to travel here daily, concluded Roderich as he approached them cautiously.<p>

If he could wear a mask right now, he would.

The primary art professor, Bonnefoy, was standing in front of the dead remains of the burned painting, fists clenched and his appearance considerably more dishevelled than it was upon their first meeting.

Gilbert was there also; purple eyes picked him out, standing on Bonnefoy's right. He wore what most of the artists here did, the same attire Roderich also donned: fabric tunic with trousers to match and simple leather shoes. The Austrian felt plain wearing them, yet he decided there was a more pressing matter to focus on as he continued forward.

"...this…._you_ did this? What kind of fool are you?" Francis's heated voice reached his ears. Roderich took his place among the small crowd all gawking and whispering about Gilbert and the ruined artwork.

"Yes. It was an accident, you understand," Gilbert defended, visibly uncomfortable with so many pairs of eyes on him, "and this girl put the flames out, so-"

"'This girl'?" The same woman from the previous night shouldered her way into the space of Gilbert and Francis, hands on her hips. Elizaveta Héderváry today wore what all other female art students did: a long pleated skirt, flat shoes, and unpatterned blouse, all of which made Roderich more comfortable with her. _Honestly, she was wearing _trousers_, how strange_.

"My name is Elizaveta, Beilschmidt," She snapped, green eyes glaring as Francis tilted his head in interest, "and I saved you both from burning the entire place down."

"Both?" Repeated Francis, turning to face the white-haired German. "You were not solely to blame?"

Gilbert hesitated. With his back to the majority of people there, he did not see Roderich's concerned expression. "Uh, yes, I…"

_Damn_, thought the brunette as his internal battle subsided. _I cannot allow him to be accused. It would be unfair, no matter how annoying he is._ "Professor Bonnefoy." His voice came out weaker than planned, probably from hours of disuse, so he said it once more, louder. The blonde-haired Frenchman spun, locks falling from his typical ponytail. His oceanic eyes and risen brow automatically gave him permission to speak.

"It...last night, I - it was me." The crowd parted so that he may move closer to Bonnefoy, all expressions quizzical save for Elizaveta, who appeared calm, and Gilbert, whose grimace relaxed as their eyes briefly met.

"You mean to confess that you burned the painting," Stated Francis, now but a foot away from him as Roderich nodded, "I tripped and fell….my oil lamp broke and set fire to the artwork."

Francis, instead of patronising him as he had Gilbert, simply narrowed his eyes and folded his arms, thin hips jutted in a _you had better not be lying for his sake_ kind of way. "Right," He concluded, "this scene is over, people. The painting will be removed -" He leaned down to Roderich's level and whispered, "- lucky for you the creator of this piece is no longer here," before once again addressing the students, "everyone, get to your classrooms. Classes will run as normal."

Everyone dispersed, excepting Gilbert, Roderich and Francis.

"Am I not in trouble for doing such a terrible thing? Even if it was without intention," Queried the shorter brunette. Bonnefoy licked his lips quickly. "No, you are not. That was...an old painting, anyway. It is about time we change some of the pieces displayed here." _He is making it sound like this was a good thing, that I have done him a favour. However…_

Glancing at Gilbert, Roderich continued determinedly. "Yet when Gilbert took responsibility you were quite eager to belittle him, from what I was able to hear. Perhaps, Sir, you would elaborate?" In his peripheral vision, he saw the same white-haired figure roll his ruby eyes.

Francis straightened. "Don't be ridiculous, I was merely certifying his claim," a look towards the unusually silent German, "which turned out to be a lie."

"A defence."

"Trying to deflect from the real perpetrator, regardless of whether the act was planned or not, is still a form of lying in my book."

Roderich's lips formed a straight line. "Maybe the guidelines of your book should be reviewed, _Professor_."

Gritting his perfect teeth, the blonde man moved past him with quick orders to both subjects, "Make sure you are at class by ten, Edelstein. Beilschmidt, go to the lobby and collect the new art supplies there. Take them to art room one." His tall figure disappeared round the corner of the hallway, and Gilbert burst out laughing.

The sound startled Roderich, but after seeing the stupid grin on the albino's face, his pale hair tousled over his creased eyes, found himself chuckling softly. The Austrian moved over to walk beside the German as they made their way to the lobby of the Academy.

"I did not know you were prone to defending aristocrats," Roderich deadpanned, a smug smile upon his features.

Sensing the reprisal, Gilbert replied accordingly, attempting to mimic the Austrian dialect comically, "Oh please, if I had announced that you were an arsonist you would be thrown out faster than the blink of an eye."

"That was a terrible accent."

"Yeah, us Germans think so." At this, Roderich scowled at him. Gilbert smirked back at him as they parted ways for their separate destinations.

.

.

.

Twenty easels were set up in a semicircle around the art room; it was the first one on the left side that Roderich stood before. The easels curled around a central table, upon which sat a bowl of fruit and a transparent ornate vase.

Of those twenty easels, only fifteen were currently occupied, as some students had not arrived yet.

Actually, even the teacher hadn't arrived yet.

It was assumed that Professor Bonnefoy would be taking the introductory lesson, yet no one was expecting the earlier charade to have interfered with his schedule. Nobody excepting Roderich. He was perhaps the least surprised to see an unknown male shuffle reluctantly into the room and stand in front of the table. The newcomer tucked his hands behind his back, straightening himself.

He appeared younger than Bonnefoy, yet almost identical: wavy golden hair, no longer than from the crown of his head to the base of his neck; loose-fitting and paint-splattered attire; a timid smile, and kind lilac eyes behind silver frame glasses.

"Good morning, class," He spoke with almost the same French lilt to his voice, making it no easy task to understand his German. Roderich frowned as he continued. "Today you will be starting one of the most important art courses needed if you are to be successful in your work," he seemed to grow more bold when he realised the students were more focused on his words than himself. "I am Mr Williams and I am covering for Professor Bonnefoy who...ah...had - had to sort out a mishap this morning."  
><em>So young<em>, opined the Austrian silently as he listened carefully. _He cannot be older than seventeen, surely. Is it possible we are to be led by an inexperienced employee of the Academy?_

"...only your best efforts will help you to thrive here…."

_Bonnefoy is near intolerable, but at least he knows in detail about art._ Now Mr Williams was writing something on the blackboard set on the wall behind him, the white chalk scraping marks onto the surface. Williams spoke aloud as he wrote.

"This course has five main projects. The first two should be finished by the end of February. Each project should take each of you no longer than two weeks to complete, that is two weeks per project. Now this year is slightly different because as I am sure you know, it is the Diamond Jubilee of our King, therefore you all shall also have an opportunity to create an artwork worthy of him. Gustav Klimt himself will choose a winner, and that winner shall present the _Meisterwerk_ to His Majesty." Excited mutters and gasps arose from the other students. Roderich fought the urge to roll his eyes; of _course_ these budding artists would want their work recognised by royalty - how could they not? It was a certifiable career if such a thing happened.

Certifiable career….something steady to keep him afloat until his parents' money came into his hands….yes, perhaps he ought to keep that contest in mind.

Now facing the students once more, Williams gestured to his bullet points and again spoke in his soft tone to clarify what each one included.

**February: Interpretation Project Piece - Interpret an inanimate object for meaning.**

**February: Identity Project Piece - Paint who you are, or the most important thing to you, using aspects of daily life.**

**March: Emperor's Project Piece - Paint an image showing the Emperor of Austria-Hungary Habsburg empire in glory**

**March: Observation Project Piece - Observe buildings of Vienna and capture them exactly.**

**May: Still Life Project Piece - paint a human subject, a nude model.**

**June: All Pieces completed. Start of the Kunstschau.**

Roderich swallowed hard when his eyes landed on the last project, his mind conjuring the words of Gilbert Beilschmidt, reminding him of how rude the man was.

If he, as a wealthy heir to his father's name and fortune, was going to paint a human subject, that subject would be fully clothed in fine fabric and dark-haired. The complete opposite to that damned annoying German.

"Alright," Williams clapped his hands, hands covered in unscrubbed paint and powders, "let us begin. Today you are expected to paint this selection on the table, so that the art professors here may judge your abilities, your strengths, favourite materials and so on. Use whatever sources are available to you - t-there will be staff around to ask should you need to find certain supplies. T-thank you for your attention." With that, he breezed out of the room, seemingly glad to be gone.

"Wait - we do not have a teacher?" One of the other students, a young auburn-haired woman with a distinctive curl on the left side of her hair, called after the young assistant.

"It appears not," Roderich replied, calling many pairs of eyes to him. "Now then, if we are expected to work, might someone show me where the oil pastels are?"

_They have been here days longer than I have; I may as well take advantage of that._

.

.

.

His first artwork had been judged by Bonnefoy, to be concluded as 'flat' and 'thin' with a 'muted' spectrum of colours. There must have been other criticisms, but luckily Roderich's ears had muted the Frenchman's voice before they could be registered.

On that same afternoon Gilbert had snickered at the belittling of Roderich's painting as he waltzed by, carrying a heavy box of water jars.

Having thrown his now-paint-splattered apron into the wash basket, the brunette decided he'd had quite enough of artwork for one day. Thanks to a quick tour of the building by another professor during the day, he now knew exactly where the canteen was. It was, as all else set here, a rather eccentrically-decorated room, with long tables and fancy cutlery. The food matched these standards, and Roderich had to wonder where Gilbert had found that terribly-made sandwich. God forbid he'd created it himself.

The evening drew near; looking through one of the Academy's many windows, Roderich noted the deep chartreuse seep into a previously navy sky as he made his way up to the men's dorms.

A pale hand patted him on the back; the Austrian let out a yelp of surprise.

"Cool it, Specs!" Gilbert chuckled, holding both hands up in mock surrender as he fell into step, both now ascending a gold-plated staircase. Roderich's expression morphed into one of annoyance. "Good evening, Beilschmidt."

A nod in return. "So I saw you getting verbally beaten up by Bonnefoy."

Roderich chose to remain silent, instead admiring the collage of artworks plastered along the hallways. Gilbert, it seemed, did not know a hint when one was presented to him. "I looked over your work by myself, and...I know it's your first piece, but you mixed the paint wrong." Reaching his moribund of patience, the Austrian halted and glanced sideways at the taller man. "I beg your pardon."

"That's not necessary; I'll explain it myself," Gilbert's eyebrow raised in confusion as he continued to walk ahead.

"What could you possibly know about art, you thief."

"Well exactly," A pair of clothed arms folded over a thin chest, "I am only an illiterate lowlife. To you. But now that I am a...volunteer….here, I have been instructed to move art supplies and boxes all day, and I could not help but read the instructions on each load. Those paints you used were not water-based; you mixed them with too much liquid and thus prevented the piece from having a 3D effect." Roderich gawped at him.

"You can paint shadows for depth, but when the subject is as 2D as its shading you cannot reach a high level of artistry." With that, the white-haired German turned his head to look down on Roderich from the top step. "Gonna stand there catching flies, or are you aiming to get to your room telepathically?"

With a snap of his jaw, Roderich's brow furrowed as he strode frustratedly past the man currently responsible for his foul mood. _I should never have brought him here. _"I feel it obligatory to return some advice, Beilschmidt."

"Oh?" Gilbert's voice encouraged from behind him.

"Yes: keeping your mouth shut when among those of a higher intellectual and social status will ensure not only my constant good mood, but also, I would predict, your safety." Violet eyes captured the priceless face of an insulted worker, before said worker smirked playfully. "I'm flattered you are concerned for my wellbeing, Princess."

"Think nothing of it. I only believe that should you try to tell Professor Bonnefoy how to paint correctly your blood will serve as the new watercolour canvas paints we use." He was only able to take one further step from him before a quieter reply was mumbled, "I was offering only a bit of help."

Sighing in exasperation, Roderich decided to cut their conversation off at that point. Gilbert parted from his side, announcing his intention to go take a shower, and Roderich carried on until suspiciously whispered sounds caught his ear.

"..._Not right now, we…_"

"_It will be fine, cher._" The two spoke in English; the brunette shuffled closer to the door behind which the sounds emitted. Through a crack between the door and its frame, he placed his view. It captured two figures embracing in the shadows of a darkened, empty classroom. Only one set of blinds were not fully closed, allowing Roderich to recognise…

"Francis, I have to prepare materials for tomorrow's class," Matthew Williams spoke softly against the neck of the art professor.

Francis's long blonde locks spilled over both of their shoulders as he held the smaller, younger male close. He gingerly planted a kiss on Matthew's lips. "I understand. But just five more minutes…" He kissed him again, and again, the younger's arms wrapping around his neck as he released a subtle moan.

Roderich, being the chaste man he was, blushed like a virgin. Which was also exactly the perfect description of him. He had never witnessed a man kissing a _woman_ let alone ever encounter a homosexual exchange of affection. Backing away from the door, he made a fast retreat to the security status quo of his room. _It is my first day here, and already there is a secret to be kept_, his panicked mind thought as he tried to blur the images from his mind.

.

.

.


End file.
